


When the storm subsides

by Maewn



Series: We are not the heroes [4]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 13:02:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15171317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maewn/pseuds/Maewn
Summary: This is their parting, their twilight, their soft, fading finale. They are ghosts of what they were, the last dying edges of sunlight as the night sweeps in.Reconciliation and parting for two elves as the shadows of war gather in Tamriel.





	When the storm subsides

**_4E 165 30 th of Frostfall (Thirty-six years prior to the Dragon Crisis, six years before the outbreak of the Empire’s war with the Aldmeri Dominion)_ **

The shop’s sign reads _The Stormweaver’s Arcanus,_ another sign in the window reading _Open for business._ Adrianne brushes the dust of travel from her cloak, and takes the letter from her pocket, unfolding it.

She knows the words by heart now, having read and re-read its contents on the carriage ride to the city.

Adrianne feels guilty for leaving when she had. When he’d needed her, needed what little support he could gather.

She still remembers his eyes, bright and half-sane from long imprisonment and years of torment.

Adrianne couldn’t piece him back together. So, she left, unable to bear the sight of his scars and his shattered mind. 

Now, she nervously looks to the small shop. It’s early, there are few people wandering about. She catches a glimpse of her reflection in a piece of spinning glass that hangs above a planter of scathecraw, her grey-green eyes are shadowed, her skin a few shades paler, the contrast between it and her dark hair, stark and eerie.

She reaches for the door and eases it open.

The inside is warm, welcoming, the scent of jasmine light on the air.

A few cauldrons bubble merrily over blue-white flames, and there is a planter with chiming nirnroot by the door.

There is an Altmer at the counter, pouring thinly sliced snowberries into the nearest cauldron.

Adrianne watches him, taking in the clear focus and precise movements of him. A far cry from the last time she had seen him, shaking and half-mad in his twin sister’s hold, pleading with her to stay.

His hair is longer, pale as ever. If she squints, she can just make out the pale scars on the back of his neck and the deep scars on his right wrist.

“Be with you in a moment,” he chirps, “Just need to set this to boil for a bit.”

Adrianne finds her voice. “Aldariel.”

He pauses, stirring the mixture with a wooden spoon. He doesn’t look up at her.

“Adrianne,” he says softly. _“What is it that brings you to my door?”_ the lyrical language of the Altmer threads through the air, almost like music.

 _“I got your letter,”_ Adrianne replies in the same tongue.

“Ah,” he says, finally looking up. She meets his gaze steadily.

There is no condemnation in his brilliant eyes, no hatred or anger that she can see. She shifts, uneasy.

“It’s been a long time,” Aldariel says, lifting his spoon free of the cauldron and setting it aside. “Would you like to stay and talk?”

Adrianne nods after a long pause.

Aldariel half-smiles, lifting one scarred hand, a quiet gust of wind shifting the sign at the door to closed.

“Come with me, then,” he invites, stepping out from behind the counter and heading towards the back of the shop.

She follows.

He leads her up a staircase to the small living quarters above the shop.

“Cyrie is not with you?” Adrianne asks, as he closes the door behind her. The other Altmer was very protective of their son, even more so after Aldariel had been found at last and spirited away for healing.

“Cyrie is in Skyrim,” Aldariel replies, “They said there was an alchemist in Windhelm they wished to speak with. They’re not due back for another fortnight at least.”

The rooms above the shop are warm and cozy, plants spilling from pots of all sizes, herbs hanging from the ceiling, the furniture well-loved and comfortable.

Aldariel leads her to the kitchen, retrieving a kettle from the fireplace, pouring steaming tea into two cups and setting them on the table.

“Sit, please,” he says.

Adrianne sits, taking the cup in hand, inhaling the sweet fragrance of lavender and chamomile tea.

“I miss what we were,” she says quietly after a sip of tea.

“I know,” Aldariel says. “I do not blame you for leaving.”

“I just—” Adrianne huffs in frustration, setting her cup down, eyes casting about the kitchen before settling on him, “I didn’t know how to help you, how to even begin to try and ease the pain you’d suffered.”

“It was—difficult,” Aldariel acknowledges. “I don’t blame you. Not everyone has the strength to help with healing, especially wounds of the mind. I was less than sane when I escaped, and it—took a while to piece myself back together. I think sometimes that there’s things that I will never get back.”

“I’m sorry,” Adrianne says, leaning forward.

Aldariel stands, walks closer and kneels down, clasping her hands. “It’s alright.”

“No, it’s not,” Adrianne says. “They hurt you and I didn’t support you when I should have.”

“You did what you could,” Aldariel says. “It’s alright.”

Adrianne looks at him, and feels the sorrow well up inside her again, “That doesn’t help much.”

Aldariel sits up, and carefully kisses her.

It’s short, makes her heart ache for what they had lost, what could not ever be healed, the long years and scars between them.

“I know,” he murmurs against her lips. “Sometimes it’s what we love most that breaks us in the end.”

Adrianne has no reply for him, and he remains kneeling beside her, head bowed, forehead resting against her shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, her voice rasping, choked by tears.

Aldariel doesn’t look at her. “I know,” he says, quiet and solemn.

Silence envelops them, warm and comforting and still. Adrianne doesn’t remember the last time they sat like this. If there ever was such a time, it was long before the Thalmor overtook Valenwood, before the eruption of Red Mountain, and the wars that raged in Hammerfell and beyond.  

When they were younger and less burdened by death and pain.

“Will you not stay a while?” he asks at length.

“Only for today,” she says. “Then I am to return to Thorn.”

“As you wish,” he murmurs.

“Do you mind if I kiss you again?” she asks, knowing that this is their parting, their twilight, their soft, fading finale.

“Please,” he says, letting her kiss him softly, relishing in his sweet sigh.

They sit in silence, trading gentle, lingering kisses. Ghosts of what they were, the last dying edges of sunlight as the night sweeps in.

“Be well, my lovely,” Adrianne says when she leaves. “Find someone who is strong with you.”

“Stay safe, Adrianne,” Aldariel replies. “I pray you find joy of your own in time.”

She smiles and walks away.


End file.
